


Dandelions, Buttercups and Anemone

by TheTruestMoose



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with no happy ending, Flower Gore, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mention of blood, No Beta read we die like men, mention of parasitic behaviour, post dragon hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTruestMoose/pseuds/TheTruestMoose
Summary: It had been two years. Two years since the dragon hunt. A year since he’s been travelling with the child surprise. Two years since he lost Yennefer. Two years since Jaskier left.And Geralt is two years too late.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 279





	Dandelions, Buttercups and Anemone

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, this fic contains a variation of hanahaki, slight flower gore, mentions of parasitic behaviour. If these themes make you uncomfortable, discretion is advised.
> 
> Stay safe y'all!!

It had been two years. Two years since the dragon hunt. A year since he’s been travelling with the child surprise. Two years since he lost Yennefer. Two years since Jaskier left.

He knew that the witch was alright, the djinns magic, even if weak, still present in his veins. Less could be said about the bard. Geralt would be lying to himself if he said that a part of him didn’t believe that Jaskier would be waiting for him by Roach at the end of the mountain. It didn’t surprise him too much when he wasn’t there, the bard sometimes disappearing for a couple of days or months, once even a full year, before returning to him in some way. But he didn’t come back.

It was to be expected, with every insult thrown at the man throughout the years being brushed off. The Witcher didn’t doubt that some of his words didn’t go fully unremembered. He should’ve known since the broken words left the bard’s mouth that he’d gone too far that time. It’s not like he could just keep Jaskier with him forever, he was bound to leave eventually.

Rumours spread like wildfire when he appeared in an inn without his loud companion. Hushed whispers and uneasy stares were thrown his way again, not that he wasn’t used to them. Jaskier had always managed to make him drown it out somehow. 

Some said that Jaskier was dead. Some that he went back to the coast. Some that he became a professor and some went as far as to say that the Witcher killed him. That he finally snapped and broke his neck, leaving him in a ditch, and that’s one of the less colourful variants of the story. Luckily, it was one of the rarer explanations for why he was travelling with a child and not an obnoxious bard at his heels. Most pointed him to the coast, which made sense. Love for the sea was something he often shared with Geralt, calling it a never-ending muse, always changing and always as beautiful. 

Geralt had huffed and continued whatever he was doing, half-listening to the rambling coming from his companion. To be fair, he had occasional thoughts of taking the bard there. Not entirely sure why, but he wanted to see what got the man so excited, he’s seen the ocean before and didn’t see it as much more than a large, salty pool of water. He never got to that point, however, and for some off reason, he felt guilty for it. 

If it was the cold pit in his stomach, the uncomfortable quiet finally getting to him or simple distraction, he found himself guiding Roach north-west towards the sea. They would be heading north to Kear Morhen for the winter anyway, so they would still be approaching it. Besides, Ciri needed a break from the constant war plaguing her, and the coast was said to be quite calm for the time being. 

What he didn’t expect was for the stories about the bard becoming more vivid, far more creative and much harder to tie to anything. Part of it was comforting in a sense, knowing that they at least were going the right way, some inns even insisting they housed the bard. What was not comforting was how they described him. 

Many said he looked sick, fatigued. That he was cheerful but so tired and heavy as if a plague was following him. Dishevelled was also a common description. Frowns would appear on some of the innkeepers’ faces when he asked for him, telling the Witcher how they had heard dying men sound more lively than the poet. Eventually, the only responses he got were nervous glances to the floor. 

When they arrived in Oxenfurt, Jaskier had apparently changed his alias to ‘the flowered bard’, with everyone pointing him to the University. It was to be expected if he were honest, the place seemed like something Jaskier would see as close to home. The plan was to go to the academy and…

Well.

He was uncertain. 

For having travelled so far, Geralt found himself at a lack of a plan. He was tragically terrible with words, so that would go nowhere. Still, Jaskier had always had a way of understanding him. All he knew is that he needed to try to get the man back at his side.

He had lead Ciri into the nearest inn in Oxenfurt, going to ask the keeper for a room and a meal for them both. He was stopped dead in his tracks seeing a familiar flash of blue in the corner of his eye.

There, in the corner of the inn, sat Jaskier, idly strumming his lute, and suddenly all the descriptions and pseudonyms made sense in the worst way Geralt could imagine. His hair had grown out, reaching his shoulders but kept together but a slim blue ribbon, dark circles under his sunken dull eyes. The vibrant blue rubbed raw into a light grey under hooded lids. Head rolled back against the chair. He was pale, concerningly so, with bony fingers and wearing a seemingly oversized doublet. Most notable though were the growths of flowers covering the left side of his face. Vines going down his neck under his undershirt and popping out of his sleeve. His eye was no longer visible under the layer of yellow buttercups and dandelions, with every other contrasting white, red and lilac anemone popping in between the thick patches of yellow. 

People were either avoiding eye contact with him or looking at him with pity. The tables nearest him were empty as if he were contagious. Geralt put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder to tell her to stay put as he approached the man, sitting down in front of him. The man barely looked up at him before he rolled his head back, looking at the ceiling again.

“Can I help you?” Jaskier almost rasped out. His voice, though still melodic, was obviously strained, dry and almost dismissive.

“Jaskier.” Geralt managed out after a pause. Jaskier struck a dull tone on his lute and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“If you want a song I do suggest to ask someone else. I’m not out for hire tonight.”

Everything was wrong. His voice was too nonchalant, too aloof. The usual scent of wildflowers, honey and spice that followed the bard covered by the almost toxic smell of the flowers he was covered with, making his emotions impossible to read. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad. He didn’t look... Like anything. Disassociated was the closest the Witcher could come to.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asked after another long pause, making the bard sigh and strike another note. 

“Be more specific, dear. A lot has happened since we last saw eye to eye.” 

For the first time in a long while, Geralt felt uneasy. Jaskier still didn’t look at him, his gaze set on one of the beams holding the ceiling. 

“The flowers” he grumbled out. Jaskier didn’t stop playing, still indolently plucking at every other string.

“I would’ve thought that you’d know about that. But then again, why bother.” There was no bitterness in his words, somehow making it sound worse. “After I made my way down that mountain, I started choking up petals. I thought about going back to you to somehow fix it, but I didn’t want to keep, how did you put it? Keep shovelling the pile shit you always found yourself in. I figured that you wouldn’t really enjoy finding another healer for the source of all your issues. And so I left.” 

His voice was even almost monotone. No trace of anger tinted it. Nothing did. It sounded so wrong. Geralt would’ve preferred yelling over the dry words. 

“And so I travelled. Petals turned to flowers. Flowers turned to blood. I did manage to find a mage though. Not your mage, some guy, though I don’t remember his name. Spun his yarn about how it was an ancient disease and all. I was almost unconscious, I believe, I very vaguely remember agreeing to a… experimental procedure. He didn’t know what the effect would be, but I didn’t really have many options.”

Finally, he sat up straight, putting his lute next to his chair as he put his arms on the table. Grey eyes meeting molten. Geralt felt a cold shiver make its way up his spine.

“I imagine you wouldn’t really consider me as cured, but he did put the whole dying part of the disease out. Turned this thing from a parasite to some sort of symbiosis or however he put it. The problem is, this thing sucked out everything. I don’t think there’s much left now. I’ve lost everything, but hey, I might live forever. So, if you’re looking for someone to sing your praises again and be your personal punching bag, I probably won’t be your best choice. To simply put it, I don’t want to.”

Jaskier stood up, putting the worn lute in the Witchers arms. 

“You can keep this, though. I don’t see any need for it. People don’t listen, and I don’t enjoy it anymore. Maybe it’ll keep you company.”

Geralt’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, hands fumbling around the lute as he watched wide-eyed as the bard stretched and made his way upstairs to the rooms. A husk of a man who he destroyed and was too late to fix. There was no Jaskier left in his grey eyes. No passion left in his worn hands. His bard was no longer there.

And he was too late.

“Take care of the princess for me. Tell her Julian said hello, she might still remember me. In the meantime, cheer up. You wished for life to take me off your hands, right? Isn’t this what you wanted after all?”


End file.
